


A Relationship Based on Mutual Respect

by Grachelle



Series: Clawen One-Shots [3]
Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Romance, Sexual Tension, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grachelle/pseuds/Grachelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven prompts over seven days. From first meetings to freeform writing. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Turbulent Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> It's Clawen Week over on tumblr!! Get pumped!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One - First Meeting

Claire hated flying.

She hated it with every fiber of her being. She hated having to sit for countless hours in a seat, her hands gripping the armrests the entire way until she couldn't feel them anymore. She hated the way the roar of the plane and the pressure in the air pounded in her ears. She hated sitting where she could see the ground below, thousands of feet separating her from steady earth. She hated when the plane bounced at the turbulence. Her stomach would twist, a bile would rise in her throat, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, adding to the loud symphony that was the noisy airplane.

Her hatred was terribly inconvenient, as in her line of work, she had to do a lot of jumping around, and now, just finishing a corporate meeting with Masrani Global in San Francisco, she was on a nearly six hour flight from LAX to San José. To her utter  _joy_  (please note her sarcasm) she would be boarding a boat soon after to get back to the island. Oh how wonderful.

She wasn't entirely sure if she'd be able to last.

Getting through security hadn't been too difficult; the TSA agents had been relatively friendly to her, save for the man at the front of the line who had been so cold and callous as he handed her the boarding pass.

Waiting at the gate had been absolute torture. Her leg shook nervously, bouncing up and down as her fingers knit together in her lap. The time came for her to board the plane, the beat of her heart increasing in tempo as she handed the stewardess her ticket. She took, slow, deep breaths as she moved through the aerobridge, her carry-on suitcase trailing behind her.

_12A._

Her seat was 12A. She hoped to God that there wasn't a person in the seat next to her. The "A" meant that she would be on the right side of the plane and in a window seat, something she in no way had any desire to be part of. The less likely she was to see what was below, the better off she was. Her heart sank as she stepped into the plane, walking down the aisle, seeing a man putting an old suitcase into the compartment above his seat.

In row twelve.

He must have been 12B.

She stopped as she reached their seats, her hand gripping the handle of her suitcase tightly. The man had just sat down when he looked up at her.

Claire decided the best way out of this was to bargain. She gave a forced smile, her facade failing to completely hide her frazzled state. "Excuse me, sir, do you think I could sit there?" She pointed to the aisle seat, trying to make her voice sound as friendly as she could.

He gave a small smirk, something that cause a pang of both irritation and some unidentifiable spark within her. He looked to his side at the window, before turning back to her. "Nervous flier?"

Had she really been so transparent? She only responded with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. For a moment, she was afraid that he wouldn't budge, that he would say something along the lines of  _'don't be such a baby,' 'are you kidding? Scared of a plane?'._  That damn smirk still plastered on his face, he rose to his full height, towering above her (and standing much too close for comfort, she might add. She could smell his cologne enough without him invading her personal bubble, thank you very much). To her relief and gratitude, he shifted to the window seat, lowering himself into the leather, his eyes never leaving hers.

Without any hesitation, she plopped into the now empty seat next to him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him turn to her, his lips widening into a genuine smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly. "I'm Owen," he stated, extending a large hand out to her. She looked at him, her eyes watching him warily. He was devastatingly good-looking, almost unfairly so, and she found her cheeks growing warm as she took in his appearance. She took his hand, her stomach fluttering (she wasn't entirely sure whether it was from the nerves from flying, or from how nice his warm, rough hand felt on hers). He looked to be incredibly fit, though not in the way she had been used to. His physique was impressive— _very impressive_ —but he didn't seem like the kind of meat head that spent every waking hour in the gym. He looked like a man that could really handle himself in any situation.

The roughness of his hands told her that he was a hard worker; a true outdoorsman. He wore dark, tight-fitting jeans, his feet clad in a worn pair of work boots. The buttons of his off-white shirt were straining slightly against his toned chest, almost as if they would pop off at any slight movement.

At her silence, his smile faded back into a predatory smirk.

She instantly pulled her hand away, realizing that she had been holding his for far too long. "Uh, nice to meet you," she stammered, trying in vain to hide the blush that had crept up to her cheeks. She was alarmed at her own voice. Claire Dearing  _did not_  stammer, nor was she ever so bothered by a  _man_ , for God's sake.  _Oh, God._  Now she was flustered  _and_  scared out of her mind. When would this hell end?

Not anytime soon, apparently. She felt her heart racing again, the blood rushing to her ears nearly muffling the voice over the intercom telling them to fasten their seat belts, the green light above their seats only repeating the request. She could only suppress the shaking of her hand so much as she pulled the belt across her body, struggling for a moment to actually get the damn thing buckled. A sigh escaped her as she leaned back into the chair, closing her eyes for a brief moment.

"You know, if you get too scared, you can hold my hand," Owen's teasing voice spoke from next to her.

She cracked her eyes open, her brows furrowing into an irritated glare as she looked at him incredulously. Frustration bubbled within her as she felt the uncalled for heat of embarrassment rise to her cheeks, still not having recovered from her previous blunder.

"I don't mind," He said with a shake of his head, his eyes tinted in humor.

This was going to be a long six hours.

* * *

 

He talked way too much for a man she'd only just met. Really, it was beginning to drive her insane. So much so, that she almost forgot how terrified she was because she was too focused on being irritated with his incessant babbling. All she wanted to do, was sit in silence, and wallow in her own fear. Was that so much to ask?

Apparently so.

After an extensive story on his time as a dolphin trainer in the Navy (a story which, though Claire would never admit, she found extremely fascinating, even in her current state of mind), he turned fully to her, his head tilting in curiosity. "So where are you heading? Meeting someone? A ladies’ trip on the beach?" He wiggled an eyebrow at her and she almost scoffed.

She was so exasperated at this point, she didn't even care if he knew or not. Maybe telling him would get him to shut up and leave her alone, because her silence sure as hell wasn't working. "Well, after San José, if you must know, I'm getting on a boat for Isla Nublar," she said, her tone clipped.

His eyes lit up.

_Oh, no._

"What a coincidence!"

_No._

"I'm also going to the ‘island of the clouds!’"

 _What a cheesy line._  So he knew how to use google translate, big deal. Good for him. Claire fought the urge to roll her eyes, still wanting to maintain at least some sense of politeness. Really, if she weren't so frazzled by the damn plane ride, she would have been less annoyed with this guy. His company wasn't all that bad. It was just that he was picking the wrong time to push her buttons. "Really?" Her voice uncharacteristically high, the tension evident.

"I'm not even kidding. The folks over at Jurassic World asked me to come down and work with some of the animals in a new program; behavioral research and what not."

How eloquent. So this was the man that InGen had hired for the raptor program. Really, what were the chances?

She nodded in understanding, hoping the gesture would dismiss anymore conversation. “You must be good at handling animals,” she said absently.

Wrong choice of words. That damn smirk came back, his voice lowering an octave. “Oh, I’m good at a lot of things.”

Her jaw dropped at the not-so-subtle remark, folding her arms across her chest. His brash statement causing her already blushing cheeks to turn even more red, the color clashing against her copper hair. 

He seemed to be satisfied with her reaction, continuing the conversation as she stared at him in stunned silence. "So, what do you do, Miss…?" He trailed off, his eyebrows raising in question.

She ignored the unspoken inquiry of her name, choosing only to answer the first part. "I'm the Park Operations Manager." Her voice only stammered slightly this time; she found she was even more annoyingly flustered at his blatant come on.

He whistled, his brows shooting up in surprise. "Alright. Well, remind me never to piss you off."

Claire actually felt a laugh bubbling at the surface; she didn't let it out, settling for an amused, and only  _slightly_  condescending, smile. His eyes met hers in a moment of silence. Once again, she felt the fluttering in her abdomen, the feeling not entirely unwelcome at this point.

The moment was short-lived as she felt the plane hitch minutely as it came into a bout of turbulence, causing her stomach to leap into her chest. She gasped in surprised, her hands gripping the armrests, her nails digging into the leather. God, how much longer was this flight?

She felt a warm hand on her arm. Turning, she saw Owen watching her with concern. "Hey," he said, his voice steady and firm. "It's fine. Just a bit of—"

"Turbulence, I know!" She spat.

For the first time during the whole flight,  _he_  actually seemed annoyed with  _her._  His hand dropped from her arm. "Relax. Here's what you do. Just imagine; you're not on a plane, you're on a bus on a busy city street. And the turbulence is just potholes in the road, alright?"

She gave him a wary side-eye glance, before she nodded her head vigorously. She closed her eyes, taking his advice into mind. He left out the part where they were literally thousands of feet in the air, but she didn't want to test his patience; he had already shown that he was intimidating enough. To her surprise, his little method was working. She opened her eyes, seeing that he'd closed the shutter to the window, preventing her from having to see the ground below. It took a while, but slowly, her heart rate slowed, her stomach settling. Even if only a little bit, her fears were alleviated.

Claire turned to look at Owen, who was now reading the magazine he'd brought in his bag.

"Claire," she found herself saying. He looked up at her, confusion evident in his expression. To that, she gave a shy smile. "My name is Claire Dearing." She extended her hand out to him, wanting to redeem herself for her earlier behavior.

His lips curved into a large grin as he took her hand. "Nice to meet you."

Perhaps she  _could_  survive the next few hours.


	2. Caught in the Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two - A Private Moment

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of the small hotel room, a yellow haze settling over the expanse of the floor. Despite the warmth being provided by the light, the cool of the air conditioning unit sent a shiver through the red-haired woman. She curled into herself, pulling the blanket even more tightly around her in an attempt to form a shield against the unwanted breeze. She unconsciously huddled closer to the sleeping form next to her, reveling in the feeling of closeness his warm body brought.

Claire’s eyelids fluttered open; she winced slightly as she felt the sunlight hit her eyes. Her vision adjusted, no longer having to squint to prevent the assault of brightness that came with the morning sun. It was a peaceful morning, something which Claire hadn’t truly experienced in God knows how long. Relaxation hadn’t come easy in the months following the incident; so she wasn’t about to ruin such a perfect moment just because she was awake. She was going to savor this. Memorize it. Commit it to memory.

She sighed, closing her eyes once again, nestling closer to Owen, who was still very much the picture of a man in hibernation. A smile tugged at her lips as she felt a strong arm snake around her waist at her movement, pulling her close. Memories of the previous night flooded her mind as his delightfully calloused hands moved to rest on her hip. A fond smile played at the corner of her lips, curving her mouth upward as she laid her head against his bare chest.

After a moment, she couldn’t help herself; opening her eyes again, she took in the sight before her. Watching someone while they slept hadn’t really appealed to her before; she always found it unnerving when her past boyfriends would admit to doing it. This time, however, she found herself curious. Normally, Owen would be up before her, or the situation would arise where Claire would to have to be somewhere at ungodly hours of the morning.

With a brief glance to the clock on the bedside table, she realized that, for once, she actually had a decent amount of time before she actually had to get ready.

Now was her chance.

Owen looked so peaceful, the warm worry lines on his face relaxed as he dreamed, his head resting comfortably on the white pillow. Her eyes roamed over the expanse of his exposed chest, heat rising to her cheeks as she cherished in the feeling of his toned arms wrapped around her; she mentally praised herself for landing such an attractive partner, and one who was so talented in more ways than one. She could hardly believe she had gone so long without such a caring and devoted man as Owen. Really, they should have been doing _this_ ages ago.

Her gaze shifted to his face, her mind having tread into dangerously suggestive territory. A laugh almost escaped her as she took in his expression, amusement gleaming in her eyes at the way his mouth was slightly agape. A gentle snore came from his nose. She paused for a moment, her brows knitting together slightly, not remembering Owen to ever be someone that snored.

In a split-second, Owen’s eyes had flashed open. He tightened his hold on her waist, swiftly and efficiently pinning the redhead against the bed. She shrieked in surprise, gripping him tightly as he flipped their position. “Owen!” Her heart was racing, only slowing as she realized what had happened; she scowled at the man above her as he let out a hearty laugh.

His laugh faded, his grin morphing into a sly smirk. “You were watching me sleep.”

She felt like a kid who’d just been caught sneaking into the cookie jar. In her guilty state, she desperately grabbed at the thin blanket, scrambling to cover herself. Owen had seen her naked a countless number of times, but now all she wanted to do what to crawl under the sheets and hide forever.

Her first instinct was to deny everything, to imply that Owen was only full of himself, that it was wishful thinking, etc. Only, she found she couldn’t find the words; so, she settled for a silent, cold glare.

His eyes lit up, a devious smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You were!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” She said with exasperation, though she was having trouble stifling a laugh, feeling herself shift under his darkened gaze. “You snore, you know that?”

He chuckled, leaning down to plant a kiss on her forehead. “So do you.”

Her jaw dropped in offense. “I do not!”

He leaned down again, this time kissing her cheek, his mouth migrating to her jaw, then to the corner of her lips at a tantalizingly slow pace. _“And_ you like to watch me sleep.”

“Oh my God, Owen—”

“You know, I’m more than just a piece of meat for you to ogle at. My eyes are _up here._ I am a _person_ and I _do not_ appreciate...”

She fought back an eye roll at his theatrical display, instead electing to fix him with a challenging glare, a smile pulling a threatening tug at the corner of her lips as he kept talking. In spite of the embarrassment she felt being caught in the act, Owen always had a way of making her smile. Along with the peaceful moments, she treasured the other ones they shared, the ones where they’d show so much affection for each other that it was sickening. Outside their home, their interactions were more controlled, their public displays of affection less apparent (though some would argue that they were still prone to the occasional PDA).

Her hands rested on the sides of his face as she pulled him down in a sound kiss, effectively shutting him up. “Oh, please,” she scoffed, pulling away. “I’ll do what I want with you.”

Owen gave her a soft smile, his eyes gazing down into hers. He gently brushed her red hair away from her face. “You,” his thumb gently grazed her bottom lip, his focus entranced by the movement. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “You are the most amazing person I have ever known,” he murmured and traced his finger down the sharp angle of her cheekbone. “I’ve wanted to ask you something. I know you might not want to, but I think this is the best time to ask.”

“Ask me what?” She whispered. Is this what she thought it was? He was so serious, it almost scared her. Was he about to pop the question? Was she ready for this? And here? It was so unexpected. Of course, she would say yes, but—

“Would you…” He paused, laughed, and shook his head, before returning his searching gaze to hers, a soft, loving smile playing at his lips. Her heart filled with anticipation from the love that was showing through the green depths of his eyes.

“Would you take care of this?” He punctuated the request by stabbing her bare thigh with his morning wood.

_Oh, how typical._

In hindsight, she should have seen that coming. “God _dammit,_ Owen!” This time, Claire actually _did_ roll her eyes, sighing in exasperation at his crude request; with a sudden bout of strength, she pushed him off of her, fighting back the fit of giggles bubbling within her. She reached behind her, her hand snatching up and throwing a well-aimed pillow at his head. 

“What? You don’t have to blow me! A handy will do the job just fine!” He laughed, dodging her attack.

“Fuck you!”

“That’ll work too!” Owen continued to laugh as she tried to playfully smother him.

She couldn’t help but join in his hilarity as he pretended to struggle. “You are _the worst!”_  

Their uncontrollable laughter eventually died down, both of them falling back onto the bed, struggling to catch their breath. Owen smiled again before reaching an arm around Claire and squeezing her close, his lips finding hers in another chaste kiss.

Once again, he pulled away, looking down at her, his eyes filled with genuine affection. “You are wonderful, you know that?” He asked, still trying to catch his breath from their impromptu pillow fight.

Her lips curved upward into a shy smile, her eyes gleaming. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she admitted, pulling him back in for another kiss, this one being significantly less innocent. She leaned into him, deepening the kiss as a soft moan escaped her, the feeling of his wandering hands roaming her body being just  _so damn good._  

_Oh, what the hell! She had plenty of time!_

A surprised, but very pleased, grunt escaped Owen as Claire reached a conceding hand under the covers.

* * *

She  _may_ or _may not_ have been late to work that morning, no thanks to a certain animal behaviorist.

 


	3. Shipwrecked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three - AU

The white hot sand burned against Claire's skin, the small grains clinging to every inch of her. Cool, turquoise water lapped at her feet as she lay there, the harsh Central American sun beating down on her back. Her pale complexion was certain to be ruined after this.

To some, this would be paradise. To Claire Dearing, this was hell.

For one, she hadn't the faintest idea where she was.

She groaned, her weak arms trying to push herself from the ground. A throbbing pain tormented her head, her limbs feeling like jelly. Nausea gripped at her stomach, twisting and pulling at it with a forceful hand. She made the mistake of opening her eyes, cringing in agony as the sun reflected off of the white sand in a blinding light. Annoyance struck her as she felt the tiny grains grinding against her teeth as she clenched her jaw.

_Sand._

_So. Much. Sand._

After giving a final, aggravated push and a disgusted spit, she sat up, having to squint her eyes as she took in her surroundings. The beach stretched for what seemed like miles, the ocean water lapping the shore in an almost peaceful "calm before the storm" manner. Bigger waves were forming, the high tide coming in. She looked out into the open sea, her heart sinking that all she saw was a vast expanse of water. Behind her, a dense jungle covering as far as she could see, mountains peaking up over the tops of the trees.

She racked her brain, trying desperately to remember what had happened, why the hell she was on this island. There had been a ship, that much she remembered. There had been rain, harsh, cold rain, and wind, the strongest she'd ever experienced. Then the hours of treading water that followed, causing her limbs to feel like jelly.

It was then that she realized just how alone she was. She was supposed to be with Karen and the boys right now on a much needed family vacation; Claire had agreed due to the fact that she had been so busy working for her new boss, Mr. Masrani as they prepared to open a new theme park. Karen would assume that Claire had just skipped out on them. Then, she would call and call and call and no one would answer. Claire so badly wanted them to know that she was alive and (relatively) okay.

But she couldn't do that.

Claire sat up on her knees, bracing her arms against the hot sand. She took a deep breath, running her sand-covered hands through her hair. A groan in disgust escaped her as she tried shaking out the grains, having forgotten how it stuck to her skin like glue. She rose from the ground, stumbling slightly as she tried to find her footing. The life vest wrapped around her would normally have been feather light, but now it felt as if someone had strapped a cinderblock to her chest. She hastily tore it off, tossing it haphazardly into the water.

_She was wearing a life vest._

Another memory returned; there was a lifeboat, filled with panicked people; a lifeboat that only ended up capsizing in the angry waters.

The voices that had filled the night air haunted her, causing a shiver to ripple through her body, despite the heat. She struggled, forcing her mind to pull any form of recollection. Nothing else would come.

Perhaps remembering could come later.

Right now, however, it was vitally important that she find some form of food, shelter, and companionship. The island seemed huge; she couldn't possibly be the only one on it, right? The odds were in her favor; she had lived, hadn't she? There had to be at least one other survivor.

It was difficult at first to find her footing as her feet sank into the sand. She growled in frustration as the weight of her legs were held down. She would have to take it slow, much to her annoyance.

* * *

Hours seemed to pass, the sun lowering in the sky as the dark approached. It would be nighttime soon, and Claire hadn't had any luck finding the three necessities for survival. She hadn't yet ventured into the dense jungle behind her; there had been a silent hope that something along the beach would come up.

Nothing had.

That is, until her foot kicked something across the sand. She startled, her worn feet tensing in pain at the impact. The object hadn't even been all that heavy. Looking down, hope filled her as her eyes laid on a familiar object; another life vest. Her heart nearly sank at the possibility that it could have been hers, just washed up from when she threw it earlier, but the fear left as she realized that the garment was too far away from where the water came up at the shore.

It wasn't hers.

Someone else was here.

Her heart and spirits lifted. Soon, desperation took her as she began screaming and yelling for the other soul. "Hello?!" She called. "Is anyone out there?!" A defeated sigh escaped her as the only sound that returned was the distant symphony of jungle animal calls and squawks. Her voice echoed and mixed among the hooting and hollering of creatures. An overwhelming weight came over her heart as the silence reverberated through her. This couldn't be happen. This couldn't  _possibly_ be happening. This had to be a dream—no, a nightmare. She wasn't on a deserted island by herself. There was no way.

Alone.

Her vision began to blur; the weight of her own body becoming overbearing. Her eyelids struggled to stay open. The world seemed to tip under her feet. The urge to sleep tugged at her mind and body. She needed to rest.

She fell to the ground, everything turning black.

* * *

When she woke up, she found that she was not alone after all.

Her eyes cracked open, the act of lifting her eyelids almost impossible in her weakened state. A drop of water dripped onto her nose; she looked up, confused upon seeing a poor excuse for a roof over her head. Another drop fell from a small crack in the ceiling, followed by another. She looked around, turning her head too quickly for comfort. She hastily reached up to cover her aching head with a weak hand. Wooden, splintering walls surrounded her, the room no smaller than her walk-in closet back at home. The sound of rain against the sides of the small shack was enough to bring her back to reality.

Water.

God, she was thirsty. What she would give just to have a glass of water right now...

Her tongue felt like cotton in her mouth, a few persistent grains of sand still stuck in her teeth. How long had she been out? And how did she get here?

The door at the front of the shack was shoved open. A man stepped in; he was tall and firm, his body hardened by what Claire would have guessed to be a physically straining life. He was quite handsome, and if this weren't a life or death situation, then perhaps Claire would have been more pleased by his aesthetic appeal. He moved with a certain confidence that she found both comforting and slightly irritating, though she couldn't place why. Something about this man had seemed so familiar, but her mind came up blank.

His clothes were in no better condition than hers were at this point, caked in a mixture of mud, sand, and salt water. The man turned to her, nudging the door shut with his foot. His hard, calculating gaze made her shift where she lay, Claire suddenly finding herself to feel very self-conscious under this man's eye. The familiar sense of relief filled her as the harshness in his stare seemed to die down, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're alive."

"So it would seem," she croaked, cringing at the scratchiness of her own voice. She pushed herself to rest on her elbows, finding the task of simply holding herself up damn near impossible.

"Here, welcome back, sleeping beauty!" the man stepped forward, the smile having disappeared from his face. He pulled a small, homemade canteen from behind him. It wasn't much, but the water in the leaf-bound pouch was better than nothing. She took it from his hands as he crouched next to her, mouthing a  _'thank you,'_  before taking a tentative sip. The ladylike behavior was soon out the window; she tilted her head back, chugging the liquid as if her life depended on it. She heard the man chuckle beside her. "There's some fresh water nearby, but I figured rain water would be quicker."

Claire coughed, clearing her throat. "Thank you," she said once her tone regained some of its strength.

"You're welcome," He replied, taking the canteen from her. He extended his other hand out. "Name's Owen Grady. Pleasure to meet you."

She eyed him carefully. Claire was never one for talking to strange men, especially when alone with one that was so friendly. Yes, this man had saved her, at least she assumed so, but that in no way meant that she was ready to place all of her trust in him. He looked nice enough, but she had met many men just like him, and she wasn't entirely convinced that this handsome stranger had the best intentions.

Regardless, out of her own desire to be polite, she shook his hand. "Claire Dearing." Internally, she marveled at how his calloused, warm hand enveloped her small one, the touch sending a spark through her. An annoying, and uncalled for, heat rose to her cheeks for some unknown reason as he smiled at her again, a flutter in her stomach numbing the pain of hunger for a brief moment. She mentally shook the feeling. Now was not the time to behave like a girl with a crush.

After some questioning, Claire learned that Owen had been on the same ship, that he was a member of the crew. She vaguely recalled seeing him aboard, though their only interaction had been some lingering glances and occasional brush-bys. On the ship however, she hadn't found his confident, borderline cocky, nature as endearing or comforting as she did now, but she would much rather been stuck with someone who knew what they were doing than someone who was too afraid to so much as look at her. This was a far better situation than being alone, too. At least she had company.

Owen had found her unconscious on the beach not long after she'd fallen. He had carried her all the way to this shack, and tended to her when he was needed. For this, she was grateful, though she was once again filled with the sense of self-consciousness with the idea that this man had seen her, and was currently seeing her, in such a vulnerable state.

He noticed the way she had been warily eyeing the room, almost as if she were afraid the damn thing would come crashing down in a matter of seconds. "It's not much, you know, for a bungalow," he said, scratching the back of his head. He rose to his feet. "But it's something. It'll last us a while."

Claire immediately sat up, ignoring the throbbing pain in her body.  _"A while?_  How long do you think we'll be stuck here?" The idea that they would be trapped on this God-forsaken island for more than a few days was sickening. "Surely someone will find us?"

Owen huffed, his reaction causing a pang of irritation to shoot through Claire. "Well, no. Yeah, they'll be looking, by now they've probably heard of the shipwreck. But we gotta be realistic here. It'll be  _more_  than a couple a' days."

The man had a point; a point Claire didn't really want to accept at the moment, however. Fear gripped at her, tightening its hold as the possibility seemed even more real. They really could be here for days,  _months_  even. There was no telling how long it would take them to be rescued, and the thought terrified her. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her sister. She wanted to see her nephews. None of this was supposed to happen. Claire was supposed to be enjoying the Costa Rican waters with her sister, not stranded on a beach with some strange man.

Owen seemed to notice her panicked state. He placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back to reality. "Hey," he said in a firm, yet gentle tone. "Eyes on me."

She reluctantly met his eyes, not entirely pleased with his dominant tone, finding herself surprised at the determined and intent stare.

"You can't be worrying about how long it'll take to be rescued. Stop thinking about what's  _going_  to happen and think about what's happening  _now."_ He gave a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. "And right now, we need food, water, and shelter. We've got all three. As long as we can maintain this," He gestured all around them. "Then we'll be fine."

"Then what do we do  _now?"_ She found herself asking, her voice weak.

He pulled his hand from her shoulder, placing it at his side. "Well, probably stick together. For survival."

* * *

That had been only the first day. The next morning, Claire had found more drinking water at her side, the rest of the shack empty, no sign of Owen apart from the canteen. She eagerly drank the water, frowning in dissatisfaction as she finished the liquid in a matter of seconds. With a shaky hand, she pushed her hair back, groaning in frustration as she felt the scratching of sand against her scalp. Why anyone ever said they loved the feeling of sand on their skin, she'd never know. Those people had obviously never even come into contact with the damn substance. It stuck to your skin no matter if it was wet or dry, clinging to every inch as it scratched mercilessly. It would get in your hair, your clothing, your _mouth,_ crunching in your ears as your teeth grit together. It was awful.

She rose, outstretching her hands in front of her to gain a better sense of balance. She wobbled, standing still until she could get her footing.

The smell of smoke filled her senses as she moved to the door. Sunlight flooded the room as she opened the door, the harsh rays causing Claire to stumble backward. She was getting pretty damn tired of this whole disorientation thing. After her eyes had adjusted to the brightness, she scanned the surrounding area, thankful that there wasn't an ounce of the accursed sand nearby. To her left, there was a pile of branches, the ends carved into fine, sharp points. Just ahead of her, the fire crackled. It looked to only have just started; so, Owen hadn't been gone long.

Claire sighed, placing her hands at her hips. She was starving, and Owen was nowhere in sight. She  _could_  wait. Perhaps he was out finding food, but she had no idea how long he'd be.

No. Claire Dearing was not one to wait for anything. Especially if it meant her survival.

She gave a determined nod, she began exploring the surrounding trees.

It wasn't long before she had found a true godsend. Not far at all from the bungalow, was a grouping of trees, each bearing pale green-yellow fruit.  _Plantains._ She internally rejoiced, gently plucking the low-hanging fruit. They had really been absurdly lucky in this entire ordeal. Things could have certainly been going a lot worse for them.

Returning to the camp, she found Owen, a makeshift skewer in hand, a freshly caught and cleaned fish roasting at the end.

_Lucky, indeed._

He passed a quick glance in her direction. "I hope you like fish."

If she were going to be completely honest, she didn't like fish. At all. Especially with the scales still on it. She wasn't about to say that though. Food was food, and she wasn't going to turn down the opportunity to eat. "I do," she lied. She held up the plantain bunch as she moved toward him. "I found these."

His eyes widened as she placed the fruit next to him, clearly impressed. "I'm guessing you feel better?"

She gave a strained smile. "If I'm going to be honest, no," she responded, carefully lowering herself to the ground, sitting across from him.

He only nodded, his eyes flashing up to her from the fire. "You shouldn't go out there alone though."

"I'm sorry?" She wasn't quite sure she'd understood him correctly, being both slightly offended and irritated at his controlling tone.

"Well, I mean," He said, scratching his neck. "You're not really in any condition to be goin' off explorin' in the jungle."

The nerve! She wanted to throw the plantains at him. No, something harder. A rock maybe. She could do it. She could! No one would know! "Do we really need to discuss sexism in survival situations right now?" She asked, her voice laced with incredulity and exasperation. "For your information, I am  _perfectly_ capable of handling myself—"

He held his hand up. "No, it's not that you're a woman, Claire. Personally, you're a lot better off than a lot men have. You've just been through a lot, alright?" His voice softened slightly, though Claire still found herself appalled by the implication that she was weak, even if it was right."You need to recover your strength before you can just go out there."

"Recover my—?!" She scowled as he tossed her a piece of the cooked fish. It burned her hand as she held onto it, but she didn't care. She ate in silence, passing cold glares his way.

They both finished, both taking time to savor the food. Claire grabbed a plantain, nibbling slowly at the sweet fruit in an effort to make it last. Owen gestured for her to pass him one.

She threw it.

He ate his fairly quickly, tossing the peel into the fire. He rose to his feet, not bothering to brush the dirt from his clothing. "I'm going to get some more supplies, then I'll go back to the beach and make a signal."

Claire immediately rose to her feet, finding herself not as weak now that she had a semi-full stomach.  _"We'll_  go. I'm coming with you."

Owen held a hand out in front of him, as if that would be able to hold her in place. "No. You stay here. You need to rest."

She pressed her lips together in a tight line, becoming increasingly aggravated at how unreasonable he was being. She wasn't about to stay here and be useless when she could go with him and actually contribute. What did he think she's been doing for the past two days? "No, I'm coming with you. You said we needed to stick together, right?"

He clenched his jaw in agitation, his eyes burning into hers. She tilted her chin upward in defiance, placing her hands on her hips to gain a more formidable stance. He audibly sighed, irritation evident in his disposition. "Fine."

* * *

It had been less difficult to gather the needed supplies than Claire had anticipated. Granted, it still was not easy by any means, and by the end of the first few hours, she found herself about ready to fall over from the strain of physical exertion. She wasn't about to tell Owen that though. She would not give him that satisfaction. Besides, he looked about as worn out as she was when they returned to the shack.

Days went by, and no sign of any rescue. Every morning, they would go out and rebuild the signal, a fire and a large SOS drawn into the sand. After only a week on the island, Claire had begun to lose hope. Among that, she was starting to lose her patience for Owen. While he had eventually been worn down to the idea that Claire was perfectly capable of helping in the situation, he had stopped treating her as some fragile being. Their initial tension had changed to something else; something that Claire was not ready to deal with.

After another week, she noticed that he had taken a particular liking to pushing her buttons, seeing how far he could get before she would snap at him. Their comfort levels with each other had grown exponentially. Along with the teasing came flirting, something which caused a confusing, and extremely irritating, feeling to well within Claire. He had relaxed so much through all of this, his calm, cool exterior showing through. It was clear that he wasn't worried at all, that everything was under control.

Claire on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Even though Owen had told her not to dwell on the future and to just think about the present, she couldn't help it. That was why his impish teasing was less than tolerable.

Though, along with his immaturity, there were times where she would get to see his softer, more sensitive side. He was by far the more talkative of the two of them; he never seemed to run out of stories. He told her of how he had been in the Navy for a time, his eyes shining brightly as he talked of the marine mammals he got to work with. He hadn't explained why exactly he left, only saying that it was "too messy and complicated" to explain.

There were also times where his advances weren't exactly horrible. She had grown to find a comfort in his touch, his company being a way to keep her grounded. His hand would sneak its way to her arm, her waist, or even the small of her back as they walked through the jungle. Honestly, the way he looked at her sometimes was enough to make her melt. Claire had never been a woman to depend on another person, much less a man she'd only known for two weeks, but here, she found herself wanting to be near him constantly, even at the times where his immaturity was at its high point.

A thought hatched in her mind one day. What if they were never found? Would she be able—mentally, physically and emotionally—to stay on this island with him? Honestly, at some points she felt that if she had to stay another minute with him, she'd kill him. And what if they  _were_  found? The idea of separating from him at this point caused a sinking feeling in her stomach. In only two weeks, she had grown somewhat attached to him. She knew that they both would have lives they had to return to.

In two different ways, Owen Grady had managed to get under her skin, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

One night, they had been sitting beside their small fire outside the bungalow. Neither of them had spoken a word, both finding themselves unable to find words. They were nearing the end of their third week on the island, and while that didn't seem like a terribly long time in the normal world, here it felt like an eternity.

They had spent most of the afternoon by the lake, their goal to collect more fresh drinking water having been set back by a playful splash fight that had ended in Owen pushing Claire into the water. The light hearted tone had quickly disappeared upon returning to the shack. They weren't even sure at this point if anyone would come for them. It wasn't a very long time, but it was long enough.

She didn't know how long she had been staring into the golden light of the fire. Owen had noticed. He had seen her pained and far away expression. She was thinking, and he felt he knew what was on her mind. The same was on is.

There was this gut feeling though, that had been twisting in Claire's stomach that evening, that the end was close. Whatever that meant, she wasn't entirely sure.

She felt his hand cover hers. She jumped slightly at the contact, but relaxed when she realized that it was him. A warm feeling pooled in her stomach as she took note of their close proximity. They had slowly migrated towards each other in their time by the fire, now close enough to see even the smallest features. Her eyes flicked briefly to his lips, an almost unconscious action on her behalf. It was then that she did the only thing she felt was right.

She kissed him.

And he kissed back.

* * *

The next morning, as they were building a large fire on the beach, Claire saw a speck on the horizon. She stopped, dropping the branches she held in her hand, stumbling as she walked toward the wading water.

It was a ship.

The speck was a ship.

And from what she could tell, it was coming their way.

An overwhelming feeling of joy filled her as she came to the revelation. They were going to be saved. Yet, with that feeling of peace and happiness, there was dread. She was scared… Scared that getting her life back wouldn't be easy. She had spent nearly a month on this island, she had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle… with a certain ex-navy man. She looked back to him, her eyes asking the silent question of what they were going to do.

His own surprised expression had faded as he stepped forward to meet her in the water, stopping as the waves brushed against his calves. Once again, she felt his hand take hers, giving a gentle squeeze.

That gesture seemed to quell her fears. He didn't need to say anything; she knew there was nothing to worry about.

After all, they were going to stick together. For survival.


	4. When You Say Nothing At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four - Favorite Expression

If there was one thing that was certain in the months following the incident, it was that Owen Grady was madly in love with Claire Dearing. Yes, there were times where she drove him absolutely crazy—in more ways than one—but he never found himself questioning or doubting why he was with her. Their butting heads was simply part of the dynamic, it was why they worked so well as a couple.

They were both people that liked being in control. One would think that was a means to end a relationship, but neither of them felt that way. True, the arguments would get heated and some would eventually escalate to something out of their reach, but their altercations would usually end in a passionate night; Owen would be lying if he said a riled up, pissed off Claire Dearing wasn’t a turn on, or that their argument-fueled sex wasn’t the some of the best he’d ever had.

The point was, Owen loved her. Wholeheartedly. He was crazy about her, and he had been since the day they first met. He remembered being so enamored with her, with the way she carried herself; such confidence and control; her head held high, her expression stone cold. She looked like the kind of woman that wouldn’t take any of your shit, and could kick your ass if you crossed her (which, he later found out, she  _was.)_  For the first time, Owen actually felt himself choosing his words carefully around one of the park bigwigs; almost everything he had said earned him a steely glare.

His attempts at flirting had been shot down, though not without a stunned, slightly flustered expression falling over Claire’s face. She had passed an embarrassed look to the ground, her eyes widening slightly as her cheeks were tinted in a light shade of pink. After months of knowing each other, she would become less flustered with his advances, sometimes even returning them, offering a smart quip in response to his teasing. She would tilt her head slightly, her eyes challenging him to act on his words. Sometimes, she would roll her eyes in exasperation, her lips tightening in a thin line in an attempt to fight off a smile.

Her  _smile._

Claire had bristled when he told her how  _adorable_  that little expression was, claiming that the word was not something that should ever be used to describe a powerful woman such as herself. He did it anyway, because that was how he felt. He had always classified her as a stunningly beautiful woman, but when she smiled, be it in happiness or other means, he found himself at a loss for words. She was breathtaking. His favorite was when her lips would tighten, the corners twitching upward into a shy grin, her eyes shining.

He even loved her when she was furious with him. Her anger would show through when her neck and face turned a light shade of red, her nostrils flaring, her eyes fiery. When she wasn’t yelling at him, her mouth would be pressed shut, the corners of her lips turned downward ever so slightly, her jaws clenched. 

He would catch himself staring at her as she mentally worked through puzzles and problems. She had a habit of chewing at her bottom lip when she was thinking (something which Owen found to be incredibly alluring), her delicate eyebrows knitting together as the wheels in her head turned. If she had something in her hand—a pencil, pen, what have you—her fingers would fiddle with it thoughtlessly, tapping the object on whatever surface she was closest to.

Later at night, Owen would marvel at how beautiful she looked pressed into the mattress beneath him (or above him, he didn’t mind either way), so disheveled and free, her carefully constructed walls of control coming down, her copper tresses splayed across the pillow, her eyelids fluttering shut as she writhed underneath him; they way her expression would soften in complete relaxation as they lay together blissfully in the aftermath of passion, the contented smile that would stretch across her lips as she slept. 

Owen did not have a favorite expression, per se; he loved them all. 

He loved  _her._  

More than words could tell.


	5. Something Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five - Long Awaited

Everything had to be perfect.

Owen couldn’t afford to mess this up; second chances were hard to come by, a dime a dozen, and he’d just gotten one in the form of scoring a second date with Claire Dearing. Granted, they  _had_  been in what could be considered a real, honest-to-goodness, committed relationship for almost a month now, so in a way, he’d already gotten that chance at redemption. But he had failed to realize one very important thing until that morning when he had to practically hide her laptop from her after she had spent the whole first part of the day working; they hadn’t been on their second date yet.

While it could be argued that it didn’t really matter at this point, that he was already  _with_  Claire, he wanted to do it anyway. After the horrible fiasco that had been the First Date from Hell (a name  _lovingly_  chosen by the both of them), the idea of going through all that again had at first seemed idiotic. If it didn’t work the first time, it wouldn’t work the second time! But it was different now; they had come to terms with their differences, and had decided that it didn’t matter. They had grown to care deeply for each other, an unbreakable bond forming between them. A second date didn’t seem to be such a bad idea after all.

It boggled him that he was only just now he was realizing how much of an ass he’d been on their first date; laughing at her itinerary she’d clearly worked so hard on (that wasn’t to say the damn thing wasn’t stupid, he just shouldn’t have made fun of her, kept to himself), insisting that she drink that tequila shot with him, suggesting a margarita after she’d turned down the former (“It’s still tequila!” She had said.) He wasn’t even going begin to think about the board shorts; those by themselves had caused enough trouble.

He had to make it up to her.

As tempting as it was, he left the board shorts in the drawer, deciding that he actually wanted this night to go well. He  _did_  get a good chuckle out of imagining Claire’s reaction if he  _had_  chosen to wear them, though.

Instead, he broke out his nicest pair of jeans (he had slacks, but he wasn’t going  _that_  far), and a fairly well-made blue button up. It was hard enough finding a pair of boots that weren’t covered in dirt or scuffs.

This was  _Claire Dearing,_  for God’s sake. She was different. She deserved more than those crummy board shorts, and dammit, Owen was gonna make this the best damn date she’d ever been on if it was the last thing he did.

No pressure, or anything.

* * *

It had all gone so perfectly, Owen wasn’t even sure whether he was dreaming or not.

Claire had emerged from the bedroom, radiant as always, her copper waves brushing her shoulders ever so slightly. He almost bent over to pick up his jaw that had dropped to the floor at the sight of her; she wasn’t nearly as formal as she had been on their first date. There, she had worn business-like attire that had elicited a reaction in Owen that  _may_  or  _may not_  involved making fun of the poor woman. Again, he was perfectly aware how much of a dick he’d been. He didn’t need to be reminded.

No, here she looked much more relaxed, her appearance causing Owen’s heart to nearly skip a beat. He thought she looked beautiful no matter what clothes adorned her glorious body. Hell, she could be wearing a plastic bag and he’d still think she was the most stunning woman to ever walk the planet. Thankfully, she wasn’t actually wearing a plastic bag, instead choosing a simple black dress. Not too formal, not too casual. To be honest, Owen couldn’t really tell. He only knew one thing; she looked  _damn good_. “Wow,” He breathed, his eyes shamelessly drinking her in from head to toe. “You look beautiful.”

A blush rose to her cheeks, tinting them a flattering shade of pink. “Oh, please,” she responded with a sly grin.

“No, really,” Owen returned her smile. “You’re so gorgeous, I forgot my cheesy pick-up line.”

Her lips pressed together in that adorable shy smile, playfully rolling her eyes. Owen knew she wasn’t a big fan of all the same old lines, but that didn’t in any way stop him from saying them. He thoroughly enjoyed watching the reaction he could get out of her. As strong-willed and confident a woman as she was, compliments always brought out a sheepish smile, a warm glow radiating off of her as she would politely and humbly decline the proclamation that praised her.

She looked down briefly before bringing her eyes up to do her own assessment of Owen’s wardrobe, her shyness having diminished significantly. “You don’t look too bad, either.”

* * *

Owen had a good feeling about this.

The first few minutes of the drive was held in comfortable silence, Owen reaching his right hand over to rest on hers as he drove through the streets of San José. Already, they were  _miles_  ahead of where they’d been on their first date; for one, neither of them had said anything remotely condescending yet.

Claire had been pressing him relentlessly since they’d entered the city on what exactly he had planned for the evening.

“It’s a surprise,” He said simply, not taking his eyes from the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tilt her head in exasperation. Claire Dearing  _did not_  like surprises. Not even a little bit. She had made that perfectly clear when he tried sneaking up on her once and he ended up with a bloody nose.

Hey, he was trying to be romantic.

“Owen,” she warned, her eyes watching him carefully.

He gave her a sly smirk. “I have it all planned out. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

To that, her eyes lit up, her mouth hanging open in surprised amusement. A laugh escaped her as his expression contorted into one of bewilderment, his eyes flicking back and forth between the woman next to him and the road. “What?” He asked, growing slightly worried as to what had her so tickled.

“You made an itinerary,” she accused, her eyes gleaming with delight. “I’m so proud.”

“What?! No I didn’t!” Owen immediately denied, furrowing his brow in irritation as Claire let out scoff.

She looked like she’d just caught him doing something unspeakably embarrassing (which shehad), even if it totally  _wasn’t_  true. “Did you plan out the  _entire_ evening? Down to where we’re supposed to be and when we’re supposed to be there?”

_Dammit!_

He was silent for a moment, his mouth tilting downward in a frown. He immediately grew defensive again. “That’s not the same! I didn’t write it down!”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shook her head apologetically, her expression one of feigned pity. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, dear, but that’s still an itinerary.”

His jaw dropped slightly in disbelief, finding himself offended that she’d even suggest that he would do such a thing. She giggled as he turned to look at her, her finger placed innocently between her teeth. A smile that was impossible to fight tugged at his lips as he looked away. He grumbled, shaking his head as he watched the road in defeat. “Alright, well we can just forget about dancing,” He gave a side-eye glance to gage her reaction, smiling at the feigned disappointment etched across her face. His grin faded as he said with a deadpan expression, “Odds are you wouldn’t wanna go home with me after seeing me dance, anyway.”

* * *

They did, in fact, skip dancing. Owen was exceedingly grateful that he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself more than necessary that night.

Instead, they settled for a quiet meal filled with stolen glances and playful banter.

After their meal, Owen lead Claire down the street to “a quiet little place to have a couple of drinks.” Well... _his_  definition of that anyway. 

He wasn’t entirely surprised when Claire ordered a wine spritzer, a stark contrast to his Yuengling.

“What, no tequila?” Claire asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Can’t. I’m on a diet,” Owen teased before pointedly taking a swig of his beer, earning himself a stern (but still amused) glare.

As they enjoyed their drinks, Owen found himself mesmerized by Claire. She honestly was such an amazing woman; she wasn’t like the other conquests that had been in his life. Claire was so much more than that. She meant more to him than words could tell.

Of course, his affection for her had only started as blatant sexual attraction. He recalled the day they had first met on that airplane, the inappropriate thoughts that had gone through his head. To put it bluntly, he thought she was hot (and for the record, he still did). Her icy demeanor, her stern glares, her stoic disposition; they each had such a strong effect on Owen. He had asked her out not three days after meeting her. The question had often entered his mind on whether or not her sense of control carried over into other aspects of her life; namely, the bedroom. Originally, he had seen her as the greatest challenge of all, his end goal being to get her in bed, but now...

Now, after knowing her for nearly four years, and going through what they had gone through, his feelings were drastically changed. Granted, the suggestive thoughts were still there, and still going strong, but he now found that he no longer thought of Claireexclusively in  _that_  way. And honestly, that scared the shit out of him. This was new for him; Owen was not normally a one-woman man, but he was finding that he would gladly devote himself to Claire and Claire only.

He hadn’t told her any of this, of course. Though that in no way meant that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. The problem was, he just didn’t know how to put what he felt into coherent words. He’d mentally practice everyday, trying to come up with clever lines to make the meaning known to her; to show her how much she meant to him. He would hide behind cliche come-ons and cheesy pick-up lines.

His romantic advances were only met with a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head, as if he’d said the worst pun of all time (which was the case some of the time).

His train of thought was interrupted by the feeling of Claire’s foot not-so-subtly rubbing against his leg.

* * *

An hour later, Claire was pressed against a wall in the hallway of Owen’s apartment, her body flush against his.

They had barely been able to contain themselves as they came through the front door, the light buzz of alcohol lingering in their systems, instantly gravitating to each other as it slammed shut behind them. His hand flew to her waist, pulling her into a searing kiss, not unlike the one they’d shared surrounded by flying pterosaurs. His other hand reached up to cradle the nape of her neck, his head tilting to deepen the kiss.

They pulled apart briefly, their eyes both asking the same question. Without another word, they moved to the bedroom, Owen practically dragging her there. She was giggling as she was practically yanked into the room, her laughter being cut off by Owen’s lips crashing onto hers.

Claire stumbled, finding balance once her back hit the wall. Owen towered over her, the feeling of his stubble grazing her skin  _indescribable._  His large hands roamed over her body, taking the time to worship and memorize every curve. A soft moan escaped her lips as his mouth broke away, migrating down her jaw at a tantalizingly slow pace, the sound coming from her going straight to his lower half; he let a wandering hand move to her thigh, his fingers trailing up her skin, toying with the hem of her dress.

Owen’s mind was in a haze, her perfume filling his senses as he buried his head in the crook of her neck, the smell utterly intoxicating. She was so beautiful, so perfect, so…  _Claire._ Normally, these kind of sentimental thoughts would be the last thing on his mind at this point, his thinking process coming from an entirely different head. But here, now, he wasn’t just overcome with desire for this woman. It was  _that_  and something else…

“I love you,” he breathed, murmuring against her skin. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even realize what he had said. He froze, his lips stopping their assault on her neck almost instantly. Had he really just said that out loud? That of all things?

Maybe Claire didn’t hear him…

The way she stiffened in his arms said differently. “What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

_Shit._  He pulled back slightly, his hand that had been at her waist now resting at the back of his neck. He just had to go and spoil this perfect moment by saying something stupid.  _God dammit. Nice going, Grady._  He closed his eyes momentarily as if to block out what had just happened.

“I, uh…” He felt like he had just ruined the entire evening. He finally forced himself to look at her face, reading for any sort of hint at what was going through her mind. Green eyes gazed up at him expectantly, causing him to shift nervously.

It wasn’t that he didn’t mean what he said and that he was afraid Claire would get the wrong idea, it was that he had just laid himself before her in such a vulnerable way. They had only been together a month, for crying out loud; it wasn’t like she felt the same way. 

Now, she would have to politely turn him down, or say something like ‘I admire your spirit’ or some other shit like that to make him feel better. Their perfect night would have to come to an end, and he’d probably never see her again.

But while he was scared shitless, he didn’t regret his words. For him, they were true, and they had never seemed so right before.

_Fuck it._

“I love you,” he said again, this time with more conviction, though his voice still soft.

For a moment, Claire only looked stunned, filling Owen’s heart with dread. But her expression softened, her lips curving into a smile. God, what a beautiful smile. She brought a hand to rest against his cheek, the other laying flat against his chest. “I love you, too.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose in surprise and relief.

She laughed lightly, rising on her tip-toes, her lips meeting his in a tender kiss. She pulled back, her eyes shining with warmth and affection. “Really.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

He cocked his head in feigned disbelief as she backed him away from the wall. “Are you sure?”

She rolled her eyes in amused exasperation. “I’m positive,” she said, pushing him playfully towards the bed.

Owen sat as he felt the edge of the mattress pushing into the back of his knees. His heart swelled with emotion as he looked up at her where she stood. He wanted to say those three words again. And again and again and again till he was blue in the face. He settled for just once more. For now. “I love you,” he said again, taking her hand and pulling her to straddle his lap. He reached up to touch her face, his thumb grazing her cheekbone.

“I love  _you,”_ She whispered against his lips.

His smile melted into his signature smirk, his eyes darkening. “Good.”

There wasn’t another word as she pulled him into a heated kiss, effectively shutting him up.

* * *

As it turned out, Owen’s three words hadn’t ruined the evening at all.

Not in the slightest.


	6. Keep Us Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Six - Emotions I

She had told him it was a bad idea, going back. She had warned him of the dangers, telling him that ACU had everything under control (to that, he laughed, saying that they never even had it in the first place), that he wasn’t needed.  Desperation had filled her as he left, the idea of being alone in such a time of peril causing a sinking in the pit of her stomach. She had told him to be careful.

But did he listen?

As per usual, no. No he did not.

And now, here she was, forced into staying on the mainland while Owen desperately tried to play the hero. The bigwigs up at Masrani Global had given her the option—well, more like ultimatum—of staying in Costa Rica as a way of damage control. She hated it. All she wanted was to go home, wherever that was, and move on with her life. The trauma from the incident was far too close for comfort, especially after it being only a week after.

Owen had been her rock in all of this; he had been there to keep her grounded, to keep her from going mad with guilt and fear. And she had done the same for him. But now, he was gone, back on that God-forsaken island, trying to find the only other thing that mattered in his life. The look he had given Claire when he talked about going back for Blue had been enough to sway her, though her changed stance was not without the gnawing worry the ate away at her. In only a week together, she had known the torment and grief that had overtaken him. His girls were his life, and in only a day, three of four of them had been taken away. He only had Blue now.

Going back, seeing that she was still living, would possibly give him the closure he was looking for.

That was why Claire had let him go. He needed to find peace.

But Claire had still yet to find hers.

She had to learn of a newer incident involving a Tyrannosaurus Rex from the local news station. She had to listen to the television as the talking head said all of the men on the mission were reported missing. She had to sit and see the aerial footage of the island, the roaming T-Rex moving swiftly in the thick foliage.

It had come like a kick to the gut; she instantly fell to the couch, her hand clutching desperately at her chest. Her stomach twisted and turned, fear gripping at her, twisting mercilessly. There was a roar in her ears, the sounds of the real world muffled by the blood rushing to her ears. Her breath became shallow, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest. Images of Owen trapped between rows of razor sharp teeth, his body being shaken in the massive jaws, blood pooling to the ground, the beast’s snout bathed in red filled her mind, his screams echoing in her mind.

Her shaking hands braced against the coffee table, barely enough strength there to hold up her weighted body.

_This can’t be happening. No, this is impossible. This can’t be happening._

She repeated the mantra over and over in her head, her attempt at reassuring herself failing miserably. Her eyes began to burn, tears welling up in her vision, blurring her surroundings. She blinked them back, not wanting to let go. A lump formed in her throat, tightening by the second. In her desperation, she snatched her phone from the table, her shaking fingers barely able to make a consistent connection with the touchscreen. She called him, letting out a frustrated groan when she heard the voicemail. She tried again, struggling to find her breath, her chest tightening.

She tossed the phone aside, resting her hands on her knees, her nails digging into her skin.

There was a numbness to what she felt; she wouldn’t let the tears fall. She found herself overwhelmed with the melting pot of emotions bubbling within her.

There was denial, of course; she refused to believe that Owen would be so stupid as to get himself eaten. Then there was anger; anger that he had promised they would stick together for survival, and now look where they were. He was gone, and she was alone. He left her to deal with all of this corporate bullshit by herself.

There was also guilt. She couldn’t help but feel she should have tried harder to stop him, that she shouldn’t have been swayed so easily by his determination to find Blue. She should have put her foot down. He would still be here if it weren’t for her. It was her fault he even wanted to go back in the first place. It was all her fault; the Indominus, the park, everything. Dammit, none of this would happened if she’d only listened to Owen in the first place!

The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as she bit down on her lip, fighting back the wave of emotions that threatened to overtake her.

The feeling of remorse welled up; there had been so many chances to tell Owen how she felt, how much she cared about him, how much she  _loved_  him. The man was a pain in the ass, but dammit, she still loved him. So many chances, and she hadn’t taken a single one. Maybe if she had told him, maybe that would have given him a reason to stay; she thought against that, though. Owen Grady was a stubborn man. When he set his mind to something, nothing could change his mind.

Still, there was the question of  _‘what if’._

Again she thought of him; body mangled, broken, dying, a shaky sigh escaping her as the images plagued her mind, her unsteady hands running through her tangled hair.

Now, she was forced to live without him

A loud banging at the front door startled her; she jumped, her hand once again clutching at her chest. That sound was all she needed to pull herself together. She rose, stumbling slightly as her weak, grief-stricken body tried to maintain balance. She took a deep breath, a shuddering exhale escaping her as she moved to the door.

Her heart nearly stopped seeing who was on the other side.

Owen Grady, that son of a bitch, hands buried in the pocket of his jeans, stood there.

Oh, he may be alive now, but she was going to kill him.

Her first instinct was to slap the shit out of him, but she refrained. After everything he’d just put her through… Oh, it was such an  _Owen_  thing to do. He just _had_ to make the heroic comeback. He wouldn’t be the logical person to call her and tell her that he’s fine. No, he just  _had_  to make her wait, just so he could see her reaction to seeing him alive. Even in his fake death, he still went out of his way to mess with Claire Dearing.

She scowled at him, but the expression faded. Her chin started to quiver at the sight of him alive. Not dead. He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him as he stood merely inches from her. She looked down for the briefest of moments, her voice catching in her throat as she opened her mouth to speak.

Killing him would come later.

She collapsed into his arms, burying her head in his chest as her face crumpled. A shuddering sob reverberated through her as she held him tightly, finally letting go. 


	7. You Don't Know Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Six - Emotions II

All she has to do is give her hand to him, and he feels like a fucking teenager all over again. He can’t control it.

He momentarily forgets what words are, his heart beating like an over-excited snare drum, threatening to just pop right out of his chest and land on the floor. Her hand is so soft and smooth, warm, delicate, and small, and he marvels at how amazing it feels in his. For another moment, he hopes that she doesn’t take it away, but as the word, “Hello,” leave her lips, and she pulls her hand away, that hope is gone.

She’s so fucking gorgeous, he can hardly stand it. What, with her stunning jade gown and her smile. God, her smile, her eyes, her ivory skin positively luminescent in the moonlight.

It’s not fair.

Her company almost makes the fact that he has to attend this damn thing better. Almost.

Owen hates these things. He hates when he has to wear the only suit he owns because all those bigwigs, including the man Simon Masrani himself, want to throw some fancy shindig to celebrate the park being open for x number of years while also honoring the park’s various employees. Whoop-dee freakin’ doo. So we’ve made it another with no guests being eaten. Wow, what an accomplishment, now let’s all pretend that it’ll never happen! Isn’t life great?

You know, that kind of shit.

The only bright side is the open bar.

The worst part about this is that although Owen did not in any way have any desire to come in the first place, there’s something in his gut that made him go. There’s something that forces him. And he knows exactly what, or rather who, that force is.

He wants to see her.

Even after that nightmare of date, he wants to see her. Even after she said those words that stung like a bitch (“We  _don’t_  have an attraction,” She had said. “I think it’s best if we remain… friends.”)  _Friends._  Oh, that word shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. That’s all he’s ever been. He knows it's selfish to only want a relationship in the romantic sense with her. She doesn’t owe him anything, and he doesn’t wanna be one of those douche bags who constantly whines about being in the friendzone. Honestly, he  _does_  value her friendship, but so far, being friends with Miss Business has only brought a shit ton of pain.

In all fairness, their date had been a fucking disaster. He shouldn’t have been surprised that she never agreed to or even asked for a second one.

“Is this seat taken?” He hears her ask over his internal monologue. She’s gesturing to the bar stool next to him.

For a moment, he contemplates lying, saying that he’s got a pretty hot date in the little girl’s room, that he’s only just saving her seat. But he doesn’t. He shakes his head. “Be my guest.” He stirs the scotch glass in his hand, taking a swig before turning to face her.

She sits. “I didn’t know you even owned a suit.”

“I didn’t either,” he pauses, his eyes making a quick once-over of her body. “You look great.”

He swears that there’s a pink tint to her cheeks as she thanks him and returns the compliment, but he writes it off as wishful thinking. He knows that he still has a ridiculous amount of feelings for her, and who would blame him? He had his chance with her and he fucking blew it.

This small talk shit is torture. It’s so god damn pretentious, he can’t even stand it. He’s almost tempted to bring up the weather, just to add to how absurd this whole thing is. Why don’t they add the newest celebrity gossip while they're at it?

She laughs quietly, a lyrical sound that is music to his ears. She turns to the bartender, not before passing Owen a fond glance, and orders a glass of white wine.

“Why’d you come over here?” The words come out more venomous than Owen intends. He mentally scolds himself for letting his emotions slip through the cracks of his metaphorical wall.

Claire doesn’t seem to notice. She shrugs innocently. “You looked lonely sitting here by yourself. I thought I’d join you.”

He almost scoffs at the word  _lonely,_  but stops himself because it’s not entirely untrue. Instead, he smirks almost sadly. “What gave you that idea?” It’s a rhetorical question. Anyone in their right mind would be able to tell that he’s is miserable. It’s not that difficult. For one thing, he doesn’t even _like_  scotch, and he’s drinking it like it’s water and he’s been lost in the desert.

She looks him up and down, a gesture that makes him feel hot under the collar. “I like to think I know you pretty well.”

“Pretty well, huh?” He’s almost amused.

She nods, the corners up her lips twitching upwards ever so slightly. “You’re an alpha male, you command respect; your whole demeanor practically commands  _attention_ —why else would you wear board shorts to our first date?” They share a laugh. “You’re the life of the party, but you’re sitting at a bar  _alone,_  drinking something you don’t even like. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Something isn’t right here.”

He’s impressed and surprised by the accurate deduction.

But she still doesn’t know him. She’ll never know. She’s only seen the tip of the iceberg. She doesn’t know that he still dreams of her at night, that he still longs to kiss her lips, that he still wants nothing more than to hold her in his arms and show her how much he loves her.

_Love._

It’s a concept Owen Grady isn’t entirely used to, something he had never truly known, but now, he finds his heart  _aching_  with it. And it’s all for her.

He’s honestly tried to fill the void she left. In the months after their disastrous date, he’s taken multiple conquests back to the bungalow, but none of them had been able to make him feel the same way. It was all meaningless; the definition of “hit it and quit it.” They would all melt at his words, all turn into starry-eyed waifs at his touch. None of them would challenge him the way Claire had. They never called him out on his shit.

None of them got to stay the night, either.

Go big or go home. That’s what he had said when he realized how he felt. He wanted her. He needed her; but he had been afraid and shy, the two words sounding strange when used to describe the great Owen Grady. If she had been any other woman, he would have gone after her; claimed her for his own. But this was Claire Dearing, and she deserved so much more than that. She was different, and she’d made it perfectly clear how she felt.

There wasn’t an attraction.

They were just colleagues.

And so he let that chance go by; the chance that maybe, just maybe, she loved him too.

He comes back to reality, wanting to drown the dull ache in his heart with any kind of hard liquor. He hides it well. “I’m not alone. You’re here.” He points out, growing defensive at her earlier deduction. He looks around her, before allowing his eyes to meet hers. He decides to further mask his emotions behind a thick layer of bravado and humor. “You come to this little soirée by yourself?”

“Oh, no,” She says and his heart sinks. “No… I’m here with a friend.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s being coy, that she’s using what he had just said as a way to lighten the mood.

“Peter brought me.”

Of course.  _Fucking_  Peter the geneticist brought her.

There’s a bad taste in Owen’s mouth as he’s told this, a bile rising in his throat.

The guy’s annoying flirting hadn’t gone unnoticed by Owen. Not one bit. Owen had seen the way he would look at her, like she was some kind of prize to be won. He had seen the way he’d touch her, his hand lingering where it shouldn’t have; her waist, her arm, the small of her back.

Owen wasn’t even surprised. Hurt, yes. Surprised, no.

There’s a knot forming in the pit of his stomach, twisting and pulling in a vice like grip. He feels a burning sensation in the back of his eyes. He blinks back any tears before they can even begin to form. His jaw clenches, a lump forms in the back of his throat. He shouldn’t be upset. He and Claire aren’t together. She can do whatever, or whoever, the hell she wants. He doesn’t care... or at least he tells himself that. It’s not his decision whether she goes out with anyone at all, much less a “friend.” If she wants to be with a total dickwad, then more power to her. That’s not his problem.

Whatever makes her happy.

Owen doesn’t stop and take the time to think about doing what makes  _himself_  happy.

She looks like she’s about to leave, his silence nearly driving her away. “Claire,” Owen reaches out, his hand resting on her arm. He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s not like he’s planning on saying anything to her.

The idea of her leaving him alone leaves an empty feeling within him. He doesn’t want her to go; her leaving would mean something that he didn’t want to think about.

Claire looks back at him expectantly, blissfully ignorant to the inner turmoil he is feeling at this moment. She’s confused, her skin tingling under his touch.

Owen opens his mouth to speak, the words struggling to come out. “I—”

A new voice interrupts him. “Claire, you ready to go?” They both turn to see Peter, his arm held out for Claire to take.

She says to her date, “Just a moment,” before she turns, looking apologetically at Owen.

He doesn’t look at her.

They are silent for a moment. Owen presses his lips together, biting the inside of his cheek, the sharp pain barely helping to distract from his heart ripping in two.

“Goodbye, Owen.” He tenses as she places her soft hand on his, the touch sending a spark through him. It’s a tender gesture, the brief connection speaking words none of them had been able to say.

He still doesn’t look at her.

She pulls her hand away.

Only when he hears the clicking of her heels fading does he allow himself to glance up from where he sits, his vision blurring slightly as he watches her walk away with the lucky bastard. He feels as if his heart has been torn right out of his chest. If only she had known the torture she was causing. If only she had known how he felt. If only he had been clear. Maybe then, this would all be different.

But she doesn’t know. She’ll never know.

He turns to the bartender, beckoning the man to come over. “This glass is never empty, got it? Just keep ‘em comin’.” He was going to need some help if he was going to get through the night.

The other man nods, pulling more scotch from underneath the bar.

It’s then, as Owen turns behind him to see the couple dancing closely, Peter’s hand firmly at her waist, the other hand holding hers, her head resting against his chest… only then that Owen comes to a conclusion. It’s one that fuels his feelings for her up until that fateful day in December when she comes, business finery and all, to his bungalow to consult about a new asset.

Hating Claire Dearing was a hell of a lot easier than loving her. 


	8. Addressed Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven - Freeform

It would be a twenty-six minute drive (twenty-two minutes if she really wanted to throw the option of safety out of the window) from Owen's bungalow to paddock eleven. Surely she could survive such a seemingly brief amount of time alone in a car. However, the problem did not lie in her solitude. In fact, it was the complete opposite; it was that she would not actually be alone. Here Claire sat in her car, impatiently waiting for the most pompous and arrogant man she had ever known (a title only suitable for someone like Owen Grady) to change into a new—or just less filthy—shirt.

Simon Masrani would pay for this; for what he had just subjected her to. Well, he would have to pay in a such way that didn't involve Claire losing her job. Of course her boss wasn’t  _totally_  to blame; there was no way he could have known just how messy and god-awful the situation had been. Claire made a habit of keeping her social life more discreet than anything. And what would Mr. Masrani even say if she explained why she would never stoop so low as to seek advice from Owen Grady? And all over a failed first date? That would be terribly immature.

No, she was more than right to withhold that particular point of information. Her sense of professionalism came first.

Though to be fair, Claire had no idea an evening out between two people with an impressive amount of chemistry could go so horribly wrong. There had been so much promise before that fateful night, and Claire hadn’t been on a proper date in ages, so there was no question as to why she agreed to go in the first place.

Checking her watch, she saw that a whole five minutes of just her sitting and waiting in the car had passed. She let out an increasingly frustrated sigh and began impatiently tapping her fingers against the steering wheel.  _How long does it take to change your damn shirt?_

On the other hand, Claire wasn’t entirely surprised that he was taking so long. After all, he had been tardy to every single meeting he attended as well as exactly seven minutes late to their date. This characteristic drove her absolutely mad. And he knew it. It was infuriating to think that perhaps he was doing this on purpose.

She contemplated honking the car horn, hoping that maybe that would get him to make some sort of effort, but she stopped herself. It was a fact that Owen enjoyed messing with her, going out of his way to see her squirm. His lateness was one of his strongest weapons against her resolve, and every time Claire had been able to keep her head level.

This time would be no different.

A sharp tapping of the driver’s side window startled her out of her thoughts. She turned her head to see Owen smiling at her through the glass, motioning for her to roll down the window. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she shook her head. “Get in the car,” she prompted, her voice raised slightly.

She saw him nod before making his way to the passenger side. She watched him pass in front of the car, taking mental notes as to what he was wearing. His blue-grey shirt was not nearly as tight as the previous off-white one, but the newer one certainly wasn’t bad. Without even consciously doing so, Claire’s eyes fell to his exposed arms, her mind beginning to wander into dangerously inappropriate territory. It didn’t help her much that the shirt seemed to cling desperately to his chest.

What? She may have hated the man, but she certainly wasn't blind.

She quickly looked away as he got in the car. It was clear that he had noticed her staring by the smile on his face. Claire mentally scolded herself for ogling.

“Is this fine?” He asked, gesturing to his new shirt and vest.

Claire quickly looked him over, her face expressionless. “Hmm.”

His smile widened. “Well?”

She put the car in gear, finally ready to get this drive over with. “It’ll do,” She said, moving her eyes to the road, becoming increasingly thankful for having a reason not to look at him.

To Claire’s surprise, the first few minutes of the drive were completely silent, neither of them saying anything. But if she were to be completely honest, she really didn’t know how to feel about the lack of conversation. One part of her reveled in the silence. The other, very miniscule part oddly enough felt as if the comments and references were needed. No offhand, stupid comment meant to target Claire and her quirks from Owen. There was no reference to their past, nor a sad excuse for a pick-up line.

“You know,” Owen began, not looking away from the window. “I never thought getting to see the inside of your car would be like this.”

Claire looked at him incredulously, tearing her eyes from the road momentarily. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, it definitely would have been louder, less boring... And in the back seat."

Ah, there it was.

Claire felt the familiar rush of heat to her cheeks, the stupid and unnecessary flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She simply wrote that sensation off as irritation.“Mr. Grady—”

 _“Owen,”_  he corrected, a smug grin plastered across his face.

Claire ignored his request, her grip tightening on the steering wheel in irritation. "I don’t have time for this, Mr. Grady. Can we please just focus on the task at hand?” She didn’t even bother looking at Owen for his answer; his newfound silence alone was enough to confirm his compliance. Even though she knew he did this mostly to incite a reaction, it bothered her to no end; and this was exactly why she felt so negatively about his joking and teasing. It was because after everything, it still had a maddening effect on her. He was still able to get a rise out of her. For most people, she doesn’t have to say anything; they just know not to mess around with her. Owen was just brave; stupid, but brave.

“Quick question,” his voice once again broke the silence as he cleared his throat. He turned his body to face her, his eyes watching her as she drove.

Claire bristled, giving a wary side-eye glance to the man in the car seat. “Alright.”

“You _really_  hated the board shorts that much?”

If she kept rolling her eyes as hard as she was, they’d fall out of her head. Was he really bringing their failed date up again? She really had spoken too soon when she assumed he wasn’t going to say anything about it the entire car ride. She turned to snap, irritation flaring in her chest.

“I’m serious!” He held up both hands defensively, as he would with an angry raptor.

She was honestly surprised to see genuine curiosity etched on his face; there was no indication of his normal boyish pestering. Shaking her head, she turned back to face the road, flexing her hands to get the feeling back.

In all reality, the board shorts had meant more to her than he could have known. Claire had been so nervous for their date; nervous to the point of almost cancelling the whole thing. The idea that the date would go wrong horrified her.  The nerves were so unfamiliar, so she figured if she treated the situation the same as something that she was more comfortable with, then perhaps she would feel better about the date. Meetings, professional, boring, meetings had never caused her to feel so sick. This was really where the itinerary had come in. So, she prepared for the date as she would prepare for any old conference. If she had everything planned out, everything meticulously calculated, then there would be no room for mistakes. She was ready for anything. Nothing could go wrong.

She had never anticipated the board shorts though. To her, the garment showed that Owen did  _not_  care. They showed that he thought this was just casual fun, that he was just trying to get into bed. In all honesty, the notion had hurt, not to mention the very existence of the shorts made her feel grossly overdressed.  She wanted someone who took things as seriously as she did.

At that point, she had felt that breaking her own heart before he could was the best course of action. They had both been at fault. He had mocked her itinerary, something she had spent countless hours worrying about. She contributed to the disaster by closing herself off, becoming cold.

She would of course rather die than actually tell him any of that.

“They were awful,” She said with a deadpan expression, masking the humor in her tone. “Orange really isn’t your color.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him chuckle, the sound causing an uncalled for reaction within her.

His smile faded slightly, his face shifting into a softer expression. He turned to look out the window, seemingly deep in thought. For a moment, Claire wondered what he was thinking about; if his mind was also reminiscing on the Date from Hell. They had really never talked about how they both felt about what happened; and that was for the best. They were both such stubborn people; admitting their feelings wasn’t something either of them found particularly easy. But still, Claire wondered how he felt about everything. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t slightly disappointed that he hadn’t even tried to ask for a second date. She had figured that he would just be back for more, that they would just try again, but when he hadn’t made a move, it stung.

Seeing him so deep in thought brought a question within her; did she really hate him all that much?

He turned to look at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. “If it weren’t for your little itinerary, they would’ve been off by the end of the night.”

Yes. She  _did_  hate him all that much.

It took all of her willpower not to stop the car right there and throw him out. He seemed to know that, too. That was exactly what he wanted. As pissed as she was, she  _would not_  show it. No, he  _would not_  get a reaction out of her! Not this time.

His smug expression spoke volumes; he looked so God damn pleased with himself for the remark. He thought he was so clever.

Oh, two could play at this game.

“Oh, please,” She scoffed, determined not to lose her control. “We both know that my organization wasn’t the issue, and believe me, you had a lot more problems than wearing those tacky board shorts.” She paused, shrugging in nonchalance, an idea hatching in her brain. “Maybe if we had actually followed the itinerary we would have had time to...  _consult_  in your bungalow.” She sighed in feigned disappointment. “Oh, well.”

The look on his face was priceless, like she had just short-circuited his brain. He had expected her to give him that signature  _Claire Dearing_  steely glare, complete with an eye roll and harsh words about professionalism in the working environment for his earlier comment.

He didn’t expect her to fight back.

That wasn’t saying he didn’t like it though. He loved it.

She could be coy if she wanted to. She could be smug, she could tease, she could get a reaction. Of course, she had no intention of sleeping with him on the first date; that was definitely not on the itinerary, but she thoroughly enjoying teasing him with the idea that those things could have happened if he hadn’t been such a dick.

It wasn’t often that Claire left Owen befuddled. His look of surprise faded as a sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips, her own pressing together to prevent any smile from forming.

“So, still no second date then?” He asked.

“Not a chance.”


End file.
